The rain drizzled down from the dull grey autumn sky onto a poorly illuminated, rain soaked city. Pedestrians hurriedly pulled up coat hoods and, shivering, darted from beneath drenched awnings into crowded bus stops to await transport. Cars rumbled slowly by, drenching unfortunate passersby without notice.
A lone figure peered out of a dreary apartment window onto the muddled streets below. Mitch Wilson, 52, with a tangled brown beard, speckled with grey, and hair that, even after a half century, never quite sat like he wanted it to, leaned weakly on the windowsill and felt that the weather reflected his mood exactly.
It had not been a good day.
He reached into a pocket with one shaking hand and withdrew a cheap cigarette. The apartment code stated no smoking within the premises - and especially not within individual apartments - but for Mitch this barely crossed his mind.
He turned then, slowly, and surveyed the disarray in the apartment behind him. Laying on the floor by the bed was one of his fellow agents, Ellie DuBois, 27, her blond hair tangled and mussed, her outstretched hand still clutching a Glock as blood slowly pooled from a hole in her chest. Ellie and he had been assigned as a team to capture or eliminate a deeply hidden mole in their organization, but things had gone very, very wrong.
Such as the very mole for which they were searching seemingly anticipating their every move. Such as his fellow agent, the woman who was supposed to help him in every aspect of their counterspying, attempting to ambush him in his own apartment as he had come home. Such as the last brief, desperate struggle in the darkened apartment, lasting several moments before Mitch managed to draw his service pistol and fire once, twice, three times, striking his partner dead center with the third shot. Such as her accusing blue eyes staring him in the face as she drooped to the floor, coughing weakly, clawing at the hole in her chest. Such as the puddle of blood now congealing in the beige carpet around her sodden head.
Mitch turned away from the body. Blood, gore, the whole messy side of the business had never been his forte. He stared out the window again, gripping his unlit cigarette tightly in his hand, watching a particularly large truck roll through an unusually deep puddle and completely soak a bus stop filled with shivering commuters. The sound of their anguished yells drifted faintly up from the street 14 stories below, entangling with his own bitter thoughts.